


March Madness Writing Challenge

by thebakerstboyskeeper



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, F/M, Sidni is a butthead, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebakerstboyskeeper/pseuds/thebakerstboyskeeper
Summary: A series of short drabbles featuring Sidni Cadash and her adventures as the Inquisitor.





	1. Binary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me or pester Sidni on tumblr! 
> 
> thebakerstboyskeeper.tumblr.com

Bull knows a killer when he sees one. Cadash, for all her polite diplomacy, is stained with blood. Her small frame holds untold violence, both past and possible.

He knew the touted Herald of Andraste was a short mouth. Meeting her for the first time shows him a thug helping lead this “holy” endeavor. She swears she just wants to restore peace, even though she doesn’t seem sure of that herself. It’s weird, but she’s the one holding the magic in her hand.

She welcomes him and the Chargers, not even batting an eye when he reveals he’s Ben-Hassrath.

Haven shows him something different from the Herald he met on the coast. Around Commander Cullen, her demeanor cracks. He treats her with a hesitant kindness most others don’t. Whether she realizes she’s doing it or not, she seeks him out. Sure, the Seeker and the other dwarf and the weird elf like her, but they’re all still doing the getting-to-know-you dance. With Cullen there’s a recognition in each other that they sense, though maybe not consciously.

But it’s the thing she does that no one has caught onto that throws him. It takes him a little too long to notice her in the pack of kids that roam Haven. She hides herself well amongst them, playing their games and tussling with the best of them. And the second anyone tries to harass them, they find themselves with a face full of spitfire. If anyone definitely has Cadash’s protection, it’s those kids.

Yeah, she’s got blood on her hands, but there’s a softness to her as well. Bull can’t wait to see which version is the real one.


	2. Master

As Josephine hurries off to write her letter, Sidni, Cullen, and Leliana finish going over the remaining issues that “need” her attention.

They finish up fairly quickly. She leaves the War Room with a bounce in her step, her thoughts on a promised game of Diamondback with Varric. Leliana and Cullen follow close behind, bickering good naturedly.

Entering Josephine’s office wipes all thoughts from her mind. Her stomach twists and she focuses in on the Inquisition scout approaching the desk.

_Wrong._

She’s already noted the hood and raised dagger before her knife flies. He stumbles back against the wooden post, feet slipping on the steps, the blade sunk through his hand. His weapon clatters to the ground, the sound drowning out her ambassador’s gasp. Sidni’s arms move seamlessly, embedding another knife just under his crotch, one through his other hand, and the last grazing his cheek perfectly as it pins his cover to the wood behind him, revealing his face.

Her advisors fall silent, but she’s already on the would-be assassin. He swallows at the dagger pressed to his throat, eyes filled with fear as they meet her own. She balances on his awkwardly bent knee, adding to his pain.

“I suggest you start talking. Quickly.”

Once he’s admitted to being from the House of Repose, she drops to the ground. She raises a brow, waiting for Leliana or Cullen to step forward. The stare at her with varying degrees of shock and only clearing her throat spurs them into action.

She turns to Josephine.

“Are you alright?”

“Inquisitor--”

“Sidni.”

“Sidni. I . . . I did not even see him until you had . . . until you . . .”

She shrugs and says, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m slightly out of practice.”


	3. Storyteller

It’s one of the things Cullen loves about her.

Sidni is an untapped well of stories. Given her life has been mostly lived on the road, she’s picked up more than Cullen could ever imagine. Even explaining how she came by them becomes a story of its own. He suspects he’s missing a crucial part of the tale, but protecting caravans and listening to the people along the way turns into an adventure when told by her.

He wonders if Varric knows. If they’ve traded words over campfires out in the wilds. She has tales from Fereldan, Orlais, Tevinter, the Free Marches, and countless other places she’s seen. Some are old folklore passed down through generations and some are wild exploits those she’s encountered personally experienced. When people are scared of you, she says, they like to talk; to fill the silent tension and cover up the fear.

And while it’s wonderful to watch the way she lights up when she tells one, it’s the songs that truly nestle their way into his heart. Both stories and songs are difficult to pry from her, especially amongst anyone she hasn’t accepted into her trust, but she’s quick to discern his weakness for when she sings.

He listens to her hum a familiar tune. She’s exhausted from her recent trip to the Emerald Graves so it’s slow and quiet. His head is in her lap as she rests against the headboard, idly twisting a lock of his hair around her finger. They both stare out past the balcony. His mind is blessedly blank, only the remnants of a headache lingering. But even that is fading away now.

“You always pick this song when you’re tired. What is it?”

She stops, her body stiffening under him. He suddenly regrets asking. Her breath is methodical, steady, meaning she’s purposefully keeping calm.

“My mother sang it to me.”

“Are there words?”

“I don’t remember them.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs and moves until they’re lying side by side. He notes the way sadness has painted her face in rough angles and shadows. He wants to take his question back.

“Do you want to hear about when she found me with a dagger when I was a child? It was her favorite story to tell.”

There’s a smile starting on her lips, a slight glint to her eye. The memory of her mother being fond of reminding Sidni of the trouble she’d gotten into has pushed the sorrow back. At least for now.

“Do you even need to ask?” he grins.

She laughs and he watches as she gets lost in her telling, only half hearing about the panic she’d caused her poor mother.


	4. Shadows

Choosing to take the path through the rotunda - surprisingly empty of their elvhen mage’s presence - on his way to the War Room allows him to hear Josephine’s frazzled voice demanding to know where their Inquisitor is. He glances up. Leliana is taking the ambassador’s frustration with grace, soothing her friend’s ruffled feathers.

Cullen turns his gaze to Dorian. He leans on the bannister, shamelessly eavesdropping. Their eyes meet and a smirk lights the mage’s face as they hear Sidni has missed several meetings with whatever tiresome diplomats and self-important Orlesians are visiting.

Really, he should have seen this one coming. Adamant took its toll on her. She’s been carrying on _normally_ for weeks.

Or as normal as anything can be when it comes to the Inquisition.

He turns on his heel, suspicion driving his steps. To this day, everyone finds her ability to simply disappear frightening. But after living her life as an assassin and spy, what do they expect? She turns shadows and overlooked spaces into fortresses.

It helps keep her safe.

It takes his vision too long to adjust in the gloom. She’s already watching him, tucked just out of the way of the few swathes of sunlight that make it into the barbican. He eyes the support beams she’s climbed up. They appear to be just barely carrying the weight of the stone, let alone the added weight of a person.

No one would expect anyone to be up there. And it has the added benefit of a position where she can observe the numerous comings and goings.

“Are you going to stay up there all day?”

Her shrug is exaggerated so he can see it.

After assuring himself no one is watching, he hauls himself up the wooden structure. Every creak, every groan, makes him pause, but eventually he makes it to the platform. She shifts, giving him space for his “overly tall” frame.

“Did you hear anything interesting?”

“Of course.”

She leans into his side. A blade twists idly through the fingers of her right hand. He takes her left in his own and draws it up toward his mouth. The scent of worn leather surrounds him as he presses a kiss to the palm, over the strip she’s tied to hide the Mark. Her fingertips curl against his cheek, the skin cool as it catches in his stubble.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

They stay until the sun dips below the mountains and they can return to his tower under the cover of darkness.


	5. Agnes

Egon flaps his wings, squawking in her ear as the kitchens door bursts open. She runs a finger along his beak and down his breast, cooing even as she stops on her way into the Great Hall to see what the commotion is.

The cook is yelling, the kitchen staff shrieking. Sidni bites down on her lip to keep from laughing. She shouldn’t.

Several mice scuttle from the doorway and past her feet. She holds a hand out to stop the templar about to trample them, lowering it only when they’re safely out of his path. He frowns at her as he continues on his way.

Her fingers close around the furry grey body that follows shortly after. It lets out a plaintive yowl as she holds it against her chest. Claws dig into her arm even as the raven on her shoulder whacks her in the face with his tail feathers and flies off with a screech. She sighs.

“Oh, Agnes, did Sera set you loose on poor Miriam again? I hope she got some decent sweets out of it,” she murmurs as retraces her steps to the Herald’s Rest.

A hiss escapes as the claws dig further into her skin when the cat catches sight of Cole corralling the mice to safety near the stairs to the battlements. Raised eyebrows greet her as she strolls past with a struggling animal.

The Red Jenny is conspicuously absent when Sidni reaches her room. She pokes her head out the window and catches a flash of yellow disappearing over the edge of the roof.

“It’s just me.”

Sera’s blonde head peeks over the eaves, a grin on her features.

“Oh. That’s alright, then. Something on?”

Sidni hooks her arm on the latched window and leans out. Agnes yowls yet again and clings to her arm as she’s lifted.

“You’re going to get this poor cat killed one day.”

Sera takes her and settles her onto the roof next to herself. “Cook wouldn’t let me bake. I had a craving for sweets. This was the next best thing. Besides, she’s an honorary Red Jenny. Can’t nothing get her.”

Sidni laughs and holds a hand out. There’s only the briefest hesitation before Sera places a slice of sugared bread in her hand.

“Thanks. Good job, Agnes!”

Sera’s laughter follows her as she ducks back inside, now definitely late for the meeting with her advisors.


	6. Strike a Pose

“No. Please--”

“But why would you not? You have saved Empress Celene’s life! We must commemorate the Inquisitor with a portrait!”

Sidni would almost swear these confounded Orlesians have more hands than spiders have legs the way they keep preventing her from running.

“There’s no need . . . I really should be going--”

“We should have someone fetch your daggers. Hold your arms this way, Inquisitor. Perhaps we should put a mask on her face?”

“My advisors are waiting for me--”

She catches sight of Dorian and Sera lingering on the other side of the room. They’re both taking turns coming up with poses, each one more ridiculous than the last. Dorian is up now, his hands holding imaginary suspenders and one leg raised as if resting on a pedestal. His chin is tipped high in the air, a smirk on his face. Sera is snickering.

“You know who actually struck the killing blow?” she says. The masked nuisances pause and stare at her. “That handsome fellow back there. I believe he’s more befitting a portrait than I am. I have so many of me back at Skyhold, I’m sure I could have one sent here.”

“Oh! If you say so, Inquisitor!”

She stops only long enough to see Dorian’s look of horror as the Orlesians advance on him before fleeing the room.


	7. Unread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: abuse mention

“Sidni? I just saw Dorian. He said you were up here.”

She freezes. Her back is to him. It’s bare, her breast binding in her hands, her tunic on her dresser.

“You’re back early and I . . .”

Her eyes squeeze shut as his voice trails off. Why does she always put her trousers on first? Hasn’t she learned?

“Cullen,” she chokes out.

The silence fills the room until it presses. Suffocates. Rings. She feels him move closer. There’s no need to look at him or ask to know where his gaze is fixed.

Cool leather brushes against her skin. She flinches. He withdraws immediately. Her breath rattles in her ears. This was a chapter of her life she wanted left behind. One she didn’t want anyone here to have a glimpse of.

His fingers press against her this time, skin warm against her own. He waits, unmoving. When she glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting amber ones full of anguish and awe, she nods.

Slowly, he traces the map of scars that is her back. Calluses catch on poorly healed skin. His lips follow any time she sucks in a particularly sharp breath, words of comfort murmured into the lines. Her head tilts forward, her spine relaxing, and she wonders what it is he’s learning from the tactile story of her past.


	8. Sports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: brief abuse mention

Listening to Varric and Blackwall discuss jousting and the Grand Tourney sends her mind back to sneaking into the stands. How wonderful it had felt to watch something out of joy, to have no worries outside of getting caught.

Which really wasn’t a worry.

She wonders what they would think if she told them of the Carta contests. It was the only thing that would bring the clans together semi-peacefully. Honor kept the spectators civil, and any who broke such proceedings was promptly dealt with.

The difference was you only found yourself a competitor if someone wanted to show you off. Or if someone had a grudge against you.

The first time she had found herself being pushed onto the fighting grounds was a case of the latter. Her father made enemies, but no one could touch him.

_“Do not disappoint me,” he growls, his fingers curled into the fresh lashes under her armor._

_She clutches her daggers close, looking for signs of weakness on the dwarf across from her._

Varric suggesting an Inquisition trip to see a jousting tournament forces her back to the present. She smiles and suggests he take it up with Josephine.

It’s better they don’t know.


	9. Judgment

Never in her life has she ever recalled facing such an important decision. Part of her is screaming, insisting she control her expression. No matter what, she can’t force the horror to stop contorting her features.

“Cullen . . . I can’t . . .”

The remains of his kit lay about her feet. He’s shaking, his breath heavy, his eyes wide. Everything he’s told her, everything he’s gone through . . . she wishes she could go back and change it. Take this self hatred away from him. She knows it too well.

He starts pacing. His voice is a growl as he questions himself. Despite her best efforts to be strong for him, his fist crashing into the bookcase makes her jump.

“I should be taking it,” he breathes out, defeated.

She steps toward him. In every way short of outright forming the question, he’s asking her to decide his fate. She doesn’t want that responsibility, but she knows why he trusts her with it.

Whatever is left of her heart breaks. Cassandra is right; he’s come so far. But he’s in so much pain. By the Stone, if she could take it from him and bear it, she would. Selfishly, she doesn’t want to lose him to lyrium madness.

_She can’t._

“The Inquisition has nothing to do with this, Cullen. What do _you_ want?”

They stare at each other. If he wants to start again, she’ll support him. But, _Stone’s sake_ , she prays to anyone listening that he won’t.

The tension flows out of him. Tired and broken, but still her beacon, her heart. He sighs, eyes shifting away from her.

“I don’t . . .”

She holds in her relieved sigh.

“But these memories have always haunted me. If they become worse, If I . . . If I cannot endure--”

What a pair they are, she thinks. Slaves to their past. Both trying to free themselves from the chains. Each step dogged by reminders.

Her fingers thread through his as she hops up onto his desk so she can look him in the eyes. Now she knows what he wants.

“You can do this, Cullen. I know you can. And I will order you if I have to. Do not take the lyrium.”

His smile is all she needs to reassure her.


	10. Little Birds

Little tweets draw her from sleep. She groans. She _just_ went to sleep. Maybe if Dorian hadn’t insisted they ride through the night to get back as soon as possible . . .

She peeks an eye open. The pre-dawn light filters into Cullen’s loft. Shadows dominate everything. That’s how she knows it's way too early to be awake.

Over in the corner, just beneath the edge of that ridiculous hole in the roof, Cullen is perched at the table she dragged up here. She blinks. Unsure if what she’s seeing is real or a sleepy hallucination, she blinks again.

He’s cutting up a piece of fruit in his hand. No, not just cutting. Dicing. When he’s finished, he cups the tiny bits of fruit and slowly, so slowly, leans over toward the pieces of scrap wood to the side of him.

When he withdraws, three little sparrows hop along the planks, keeping an eye on him as they snatch the morsels he’s left. The offering is quickly devoured, but they stay there, watching the human slice up more breakfast.

Sidni refuses to move a muscle, just watching as her commander gently gives them a second helping. The look on his face convinces her to insist Josephine let him keep the hole in his ceiling.


	11. Chapter 11

From her perch on the back of Dorian’s chair, she can just see Cullen’s tower. She wonders if he’s in there. Or if he’s down with the troops.

Her head thumps back against the bookcase.

“You could speak to him, you know.”

She flicks Dorian’s temple. He doesn’t even twitch, his head still pressed back against her thigh, idly flipping a page every few moments.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“I didn’t ask for you to sit up there like an overgrown bird.”

She shifts her thigh, smiling when he grunts as he’s knocked forward.

“All I’m saying is,” Dorian continues, slouching so he’s out of her line of attack, “you two have been dancing around each other for entirely too long.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And therein lies the problem. We’ll all be dead before one of you speaks up.”

“I’m _The Inquisitor_. The _Blessed Herald of Andraste_. And a Carta thug.”

“And?”

She plucks a book from one of the shelves, letting it fall open. Dorian watches from the corner of his eye and decides a discussion with Varric is in order. Or Corypheus may very well kill them all before he gets to win Varric’s coin and see a true smile on Sidni’s face.


	12. He Died. I Smiled.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: violence and abuse mention

She gets complacent. The moment she finally lets herself feel safe, thinks she might be free, it happens.

She should’ve seen it coming.

The Hissing Wastes are beautiful. The others seem to regard it in varying degrees of distaste. But there’s something about the inscriptions, the tombs, the stories they tell. Her fingers trail over the stones, a small smile playing on her lips as she glances around the mountain.

Something in her gut twists. It’s a familiar sensation, but one she hasn’t felt in a while. Her eyes narrow and the voices of her friends fade away as she searches.

He’s targeting Dorian. They know. Too close. Too close. Dagger coated with poison. Her closest friend will be made an example with a simple slash.

The pounding of her heart drowns out the sudden rush of noise as she looses one of her knives. The blade is buried in the dwarf’s thigh even as she’s covered half the distance toward him. She’s only vaguely aware of Dorian’s curse, Cassandra’s shout, and Varric dodging out of her way.

The brand above the would-be assailant’s ragged beard is all too familiar. So is the face glaring at her. She rests her boot against his crotch, using the other foot to press against his throat just enough to panic him. Leaning on her knee and letting one of her daggers dangle above his face, she snarls.

“What are you doing here, Harbek?”

“You think he’ll let you go that easily?” he rasps.

She presses harder into his throat.

His voice is a wheeze now. “He thought you were a pawn. But now he’ll know. He’ll bring you back, whatever it takes.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“He’ll never find out.”

“You think I won’t tell him? You can’t buy me.”

“I know.”

For a brief moment, his eyes show relief when she lifts her foot away. She smiles and brings her heel down with all the force she can muster, relishing in the way he chokes and gasps after her strike. She can feel the horrified gazes on her back, but she ignores them, rubbing away the phantom feel of his hands holding her wrists as a knife carved into her back.


	13. Gutless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a follow-up to Chapter 12

Dorian purposefully steps heavily as he approaches Sidni. What happened outside the tomb rattled all of them. Perhaps they’ve always known, but to see something like that . . .

She’s sat herself on the edges of the camp. The wind howls across the sand, whipping a biting chill across any exposed skin. He settles next to her, tugging his cloak closer.

“There’s a perfectly good fire over there.”

She twists her hands, staring, her gloves discarded somewhere. The Mark casts an eerie glow on her skin.

Dorian waits. For something less serious, he might have wheedled her until she relented and dragged him back to the fire. But this he recognizes. If he had wine . . . but maybe it’s better they don’t.

“He would’ve killed you. So quickly.”

He starts at the wooden tone. It’s flat, devoid of the spirit he so loves in this pesky dwarf. Her eyes have shifted, locked out into the nothingness of the Wastes.

“You prevented that,” he reminds her.

“He got too close.”

He watches her. The blankness. The rigidity. He wonders if this is the Sidni that existed before the Conclave turned her life upside down. If it is, he’s glad the trouble has shaken her free. Even if she’s constantly in peril.

Her voice sends chills of a different sort down his spine when she breaks the silence. “He can’t even do his own fucking dirty work.”

“Who?”

She finally - _finally_ \- turns to him. Anger twists her face, but he can see the hurt dancing in her gaze. A cruel smile plays on her lips.

“You’re not the only member of the Terrible Fathers Guild.”


	14. Raw Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: blood, violence, and a brief abuse mention

_Move. Dammit, move!_

She can’t breathe. She’s cold. Every movement hurts. She can only see the trees above her out of one eye.

_You’re going to die if you don’t MOVE!_

Her skin scrapes across fallen branches, abrading the already tender tissue. Her fingers slip across her stomach, wet with blood. Sparks linger in her blood from the last spell she was hit with.

But she is somehow still breathing. Locking her left arm across the wound in her stomach, the shredded fingers of her right hand claw at the nearest tree. She screams as she drags herself to her feet.

Even in her current state, she finds it funny that it’s the feel of a tree that grounds her. She leans against it, staring at the bodies of the apostate and two dwarves she’d managed to take out before being overpowered. She should probably do something with them, but honestly, who’s going to care? There are more pressing matters anyway.

Her pack is gone. Along with all of the lyrium her father entrusted her with. Too bad he hadn’t trusted her word about her bastard of a cousin.

She should’ve known the word of a sixteen year old wouldn’t stand against Roggar. No matter how good she is.

And now he’s successfully foiled her first solo run.

She falls to her knees, pawing at the dead mage. He’s got a pouch. And she’s hoping against hope . . .

She nearly cries when her hand closes around a bottle of elfroot salve.

Most of it goes across her stomach and up her side. She tears apart the mage’s robes and presses it in the gash, wrapping what remains about her torso. There’s some gold sewn into her tunic. If she can make it to the village a ways back, she can get someone to stitch it.

Her body is screaming at her. She forces breaths in, ignoring how they feel like blades tearing her apart.

_I’m going to die._

She gives herself a few moments before tending to her eye. Her terror that her vision is gone is relieved when she gets the blood mostly wiped away. Seems the blow managed to glance off her brow. It’ll leave a mean scar.

_If you live._

The last of the elfroot slathered across her eye, clinging to a nearby tree to get to her feet, she sends out a prayer to anyone listening. If she can just get to the village.

She’ll have to deal with her father at the end of it. But hopefully her wounds will be enough to deter him from inflicting new ones.


	15. Telephone

Cullen knows her better than she knows herself. Once, she would’ve found that frightening. Now . . . now she basks in the fact that there is someone who thinks she is worth learning inside and out.

And it’s this knowledge that alerts him to her mood. She hides it well, but not from him. He can sense the taut strings and “stabby tendencies” boiling below the surface in the midst of this ridiculous Exalted Council.

Her husband - _husband!_ \- pulls her into a secluded corner. They’ve managed to dodge tittering Orlesians and frowning Fereldans at last. He lifts her, pinning her hips against the wall with his own. A smile lights up her face as their eyes meet, faces level.

“Is something wrong, Commander?”

“I believe I’ve been neglecting my duty to my wife. She’s had far too much attention from other, less pleasant, admirers.”

Sidni doesn’t think anyone could claim Cullen has been neglecting his husbandly duties. Her body can attest to it. Still, she’s willing to play along.

“That’s a shame. How do you intend to fix that?”

His kiss takes her back to that night he pressed her against the desk. How eager they had both been, just barely restraining from being too rough with one another.

“What is that?” he murmurs against her lips.

She’s forced out of her musings by a delicate chiming. It’s accompanied by a soft glow dancing on Cullen’s features. She blinks.

Both of their attentions are drawn to the crystal around her neck, resting underneath the coin she never removes. Her brow furrows as she takes the gem in her palm.

“Dorian?”

“I must say, the Inquisitor and the Commander caught snogging in the courtyard. What would people say?”

Her head whips to the side, eyes searching. She spots the mage on an upper level, grinning, his own crystal in his hand. Cullen follows her gaze and snorts.

“I take back what I said,” she growls into the stone. “I won’t miss you.”

His laugh echoes through the magical channel as well as through the open area. Cullen sets her down, fighting back his own laugh, even as pink dusts his cheeks.

“I am simply doing my civic duty. Saving the innocent populace from finding you two _en déshabillé_.”

She swears to herself she’s going to stab him. Right in an ass cheek.

“Just remember, Dorian. You can’t hide from me. Not even in Tevinter.”

She grins up at her friend, even as she pulls Cullen toward their private, mage-free quarters.


	16. In Sight

Sidni glances up at Dorian, following his gaze to the training arenas. At first, she’s not sure what he’s looking at beyond a group of soldiers gathered. It’s not like she can see over all these tall people. They part slightly, shifting to follow the fight taking place in front of them.

Her eyes widen. Bull and Cullen are facing off against each other. Both are breathing hard, slouching slightly with exhaustion, but neither has abandoned their form as they circle one another. But Cullen . . . Cullen is shirtless, patches of skin shiny with sweat. His eyes flash in the sunlight as he studies the giant Qunari. And his hair. The exertion has taken its toll, disrupting his usual style. Curls escape, twisting against his temples and flopping onto his forehead. She swallows, her fingers itching to touch.

Their voices don’t travel across to where she’s still following Dorian, but she can see their lips moving. Cullen’s brow furrows as he says something. Bull throws his head back and laughs, his response coming out between guffaws, but still quiet. Cullen takes the opening and leaps, grabbing hold of Bull’s bad shoulder and hooking a leg around the Qunari’s knees. They go down, the commander twisting to perch atop his downed opponent.

Pain shoots up from her ankle, followed quickly by similar blossoms in her knees and elbows.

She groans as she realizes she missed the first step in her distraction. Now, she’s practically laying on the stone staircase.

Dorian coughs suspiciously.

“You could help me instead of laughing.”

“Laugh? At your terrible plight? Perish the thought. I am dumbfounded with concern.”

She snorts, even as he grasps her elbow and helps her up. They continue into the castle while she attempts to ignore the concerned stares and the sounds of cheering from the training grounds.


	17. 9/11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since this is more of a modern prompt, I tried to go with something I imagine would've had the same impact on the inhabitants of Thedas.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Abuse mentions

Coming to is worse than thinking she’s finally dead. She’s really _fucking_ tired of being in pain. Just a few days where she isn’t battered and bruised and--

She gasps. Broken ribs for sure. Something’s wrong with her shoulder. She’s not entirely sure it’s in the right place. Her body is one giant bruise. Her wrist is crooked from where that _thing_ grabbed her.

That memory sends her to her feet. Too fast as it turns out. She collapses to her knees, gasping and whimpering. She reminds herself she’s been through worse and presses on.

Feeling her way out of whatever cave she’s in, she finds herself standing in a sea of white. Icy wind claws at her, eager to finish the job. It’s endless, broken up only by tiny bits of debris. Remnants of Haven mocking her.

The tears freeze on her cheeks. She failed them. In the worst possible way. She gave them hope, let them celebrate . . . and then failed to keep back those who would harm them. All those people . . . innocent in a way she’s never been. 

And yet she’s still alive when they aren’t.

 _Amgetoll_ , her father’s voice echoes in her head.

Hadn’t she learned she could never properly fulfill the _amgetoll_ set before her? Time and time again he had told her, bloodied it into her flesh. Over and over. Never good enough. Never diligent enough.

But this time she had failed more than just herself or the heartless bastard who held her leash.

Her heart hurts in a long forgotten manner. They had all looked to her. The remains of the Inquisition, the people who had flocked to them because they believed in it, wiped out so easily.

A fiery arrow shoots across her mind’s eye. There are survivors. Somewhere. And they have no idea what Corypheus had actually attempted. What he still intends to do.

_Amgetoll._

She sinks up to her thigh with the first step. And the next. It’s slow, but she has to find them. Has to warn them.

_Amge--_

She yells. Shakes her head. Slogs through more snow. Ignores every burst of white hot pain that sears through her. She begs any listening deity to let her find them, to let her make this right.

By the Stone, this won’t happen again. She won’t let it. Never again will she let such honest, trusting, good people suffer a catastrophe such as this.

It’s her _duty_. Hers alone. And one she gladly chooses.


	18. Nailed It

“Hey Prickly, heard Ruffles asking after Curly the other day.”

“Mmhm?”

She doesn’t look at Varric. Her eyes are focused on the slip of wood in her hands. She’s not sure what she’s carving anymore. It’s probably going into the fire.

“Yeah. Asking about his birthday.”

“That’s interesting,” she replies, staring at the shapes she’s designed. She really has no talent. Not like Blackwall. But when a merchant had shown her the basics on the road, she’d taken it up as a way to pass the time. She hasn’t tried in a while, and it shows.

Plus, Varric doesn’t need to know that she’d heard Cullen’s nickname and become ten times more interested in what he has to say.

“She’s been agonizing over what to get him. Birthday presents can be tricky.”

She blinks, turning to her fellow dwarf.

“Presents? On your birthday? Is that something people do?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, and then shuts it. A look crosses his face, but it’s gone before she can determine exactly what it is. She has a feeling it would’ve been pity.

“Well . . . yeah. I guess to show the person you appreciate them?”

Heat floods her cheeks and she turns back to the knife and wood in her hand.

“Oh.”

~~

She hesitates outside the door. Every instinct tells her to run back to her rooms and forget she ever had this ridiculous idea.

But Varric’s words echo in her head.

Taking a deep breath, she slips inside Cullen’s office. He’s down with the recruits. She glances around, hands shaking.

She sets the small offering on his desk, on a pile of parchments. Her eyes are locked on it. It doesn’t even look good. The numerous cuts on her hands attest to her struggle with it. What was she thinking?

Hearing his voice near the door sends her into a panic. She bolts for one of the others, closing it behind her soundlessly. Her back presses against the wood and she realizes she forgot to grab the “gift” before she left.

_Shit._

She runs. Tries to convince herself that he won’t know since she didn’t leave a note with it. He can toss it if he wants.

~~

“Just one game, Curly. You could use a break.”

“I have far too much to do, Varric. Perhaps another time.”

Cullen stops. Atop said work is a small wooden Mabari figurine. Its ears are slightly mismatched and its paws seem too big for its body, but it’s unmistakable. The red ribbon around its neck is tied in a rough bow. He twists it between his fingers, smiling softly.

Varric grins knowingly. “Another time then. I’ll hold you to it,” he says as he leaves the commander with his gift.


	19. Whiskey

“Sidni?”

Her nose wrinkles.

“That’s no way to wake her after last night.”

There’s a rustle of fabric before light assaults her closed eyes.

“Rise and shine, my lovely dwarf friend!”

The knife she throws misses Dorian by a hair. Sufficiently warned, he raises his hands and bows out.

“I’ll leave this to you, Commander.”

Cullen watches him leave before sitting on the edge of Sidni’s bed. She looks like a child, curled in the middle of the large mattress, the covers pulled over her head. He lays a hand on her calf, over the quilt.

“Go away,” she grumbles.

“You’ve missed breakfast.”

A groan answers him.

He chuckles. “Have you never had a hangover before?”

“No.”

“What did you and Dorian do last night?”

“He said he got the whiskey from a travelling merchant. It tasted better than the wine he usually insists on.”

Cullen laughs. The moments where he gets to see her discover new aspects of the world, for good or ill, warm his heart. It’s nice to know she can actually get drunk. In the same instant, he realizes doing so would have been a liability in her . . . before the Inquisition.

He leans over, pulling back the covers. Her hair is wild, curls tumbling everywhere. Her eyes are scrunched shut, fingers clinging to keep him from tugging any more free.

“I’ll see if Miriam has any tea that will help.”

He cuts off her disgusted scoff with a kiss to her temple. She inhales, her expression smoothing as she wiggles slightly toward him. His fingers are gentle as he brushes hair back from her face.

“I’ll return soon,” he promises. And if he slides the curtains closed as he leaves, neither of them mention it.


	20. Petal

The report shakes in his hand. He blinks and tries to refocus. It shakes again. He glares at his hand. It’s steady.

A quiet snort finally makes him realize it’s Sidni. She’s wedged herself under his arm, her body against his side. And she’s laughing. Silently.

The shaking of her body is the culprit.

“What are you reading?”

The book disappears faster than he can blink.

“Nothing.”

Brow quirked, he turns back to the report.

She starts laughing again. This time, she’s not so silent. He sets the neverending stack of parchment aside and looks over her shoulder.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Stone’s sake . . . do people really think lips look like rose petals?”

She bursts into peals of laughter. He snatches the worn tome from her hand while she’s distracted. A glance at the cover confirms his suspicions.

“Did Cassandra give this to you?”

She nods through her laughter. He shakes his head and drops the book off the side of the bed. She flops to her back without the support of his body. He shifts over her, brushing his cheek against hers. His scruff scrapes her skin in the way she won’t admit she likes.

“I think yours look like Embrium.”

She groans. “Cullen. No.”

“No?”

“That’s so--”

She squeaks as he nips at her shoulder, all thoughts of Varric’s ridiculous metaphors forgotten.


	21. Language

“So, let me guess: fellow surface dwarf, maybe part of the Carta?”

This Varric character questioning her isn’t doing anything for her disposition. Her hand feels like it’s on fire, some religious nut is dragging her toward the _hole_ in the _sky_ , and an elvhen apostate has argued she’s innocent. Of creating said hole and killing the Divine.

She knows her life isn’t normal, but this . . . _what the fuck_?

Instead of answering, she glares. He smirks, still keeping in step with her. He’s not going to let this go.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m so pleased.”

“I’m not the only one with a shifty-smuggler look,” she snaps.

See how he likes it.

“Varric did not destroy the Conclave,” the Seeker interrupts.

Sidni’s snarl is cut off by Varric saying, “That you know of. We shifty-smuggler types can be tricky.”

He winks at her. She speeds up, but he does the same to stay with her. Her fingers clench around invisible throwing knives. There’s no way out, and trying to escape at this point would be signing her death warrant.

Though she’s pretty sure once word gets back, Lorcan will sign it himself.

Varric doesn’t stop prodding her for details. When she doesn’t answer, he starts making them up. She lets him, refusing to give anything to these people.

_Crack._

The magic on her hand sends her to her knees. She grits her teeth through the pain, ignoring the others until she can breathe again.

“Shit, are you okay?” Varric asks.

“Fine.”

They’re getting closer and closer, and he still won’t shut up. They’re at an impasse. They’re both good at what they do. They can see which strings will unravel each other.

Except she holds one winning card in her hand.

She halts suddenly, turning to him. His brows shoot up as he stops, tilting his head toward her. A grin crosses her lips.

“ _Parsha_ ,” she growls, the word rolling easily off her tongue.

The way his face pales tells her he knows exactly who she is. Cassandra and Solas exchange a confused look. She draws herself up and continues on, a slight bounce in her step. His whispered “Andraste’s tits” is music to her ears.


	22. I Messed Up

She senses him before she hears him. He’s not wearing armor. Which means he can’t sleep.

That makes two of them.

A small part of her - one she thought she’d locked away - is pleased. Or maybe that’s just her own attempt at soothing the pain that takes up the rest of her body. The careful thud of his boots on the stairs announces his bravery at breaching her space.

She stays out on the furthest balcony. The moons light the surrounding mountains in a deceptively dreamlike quality. It feels false. Makes her skin itch. For the first time in months, she has the urge to run. To go anywhere that isn’t here and disappear.

It makes her heart hurt even worse.

She flinches when he calls her name. The last time she heard him, his words had been . . . She knows it was the withdrawal talking. It still stung.

_Why can’t you behave like the Inquisitor for once?_

But she’s never been a coward. And she won’t start now. Even though this man owns the very soul of her and can destroy her in a way her father never could.

Silent steps take her to the doorway. She waits, the cold at her back, warmth filling the space in front of her. It carries his scent to her. She breathes it in, letting it calm her.

When he crests the staircase and comes face to face with her, he looks awful. Her heart lurches. She wants to run to him.

_You can’t do things like this._

She knows. She knows it wasn’t him talking. Just like it wasn’t her lashing out at him. But it doesn’t change the way the words pierced her. Or how the disappointment in his eyes felt like the scars on her back reopening.

“Varric . . . Varric told me why.”

She turns her face away.

“Why didn’t--”

“I’m not apologizing for what I did, Cullen.”

He sighs and crosses the room until he’s standing in front of her. She shifts her weight, ready to flee.

“I’m not asking you to. But you should have told me.”

“He’d already . . . _touched_ you. I didn’t want you to know what he said.”

His knees hit the floor. A wince twists her face at the noise, even as she turns to him in shock. It’s not often she looks down at anyone and this is, quite frankly, unsettling.

“I’m _so sorry_.”

She just barely refrains from taking a step back, but her hands jerk upward. Palms facing out, it’s an instinctive reaction to push him away. He tips forward, his face pressed into her stomach. Her hands hover uselessly.

“Maker, the things I said. I shouldn’t have said them, Sidni. I should never have--”

Tears cloud her vision. She tangles her fingers in the hair at the back of his head and her torso curls over him.

“I know,” she whispers. Her nails scrape against his neck. He sags against her, his arms squeezing around her waist.

“We both said things we shouldn’t.”

He huffs a bitter laugh into her nightshirt before standing. A protest is cut off as he lifts her off her feet and carries her to the bed. He doesn’t set her down as he sits and wriggles his way under the rumpled blankets. She settles at his side, tossing a leg across his hips, an arm across his chest, and burrowing her head into his shoulder. His lips press against her hair. She shivers as his fingers dance across her arm.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“I am too. For what I said. Not the other thing.”

His laugh rumbles through her body. They’ll discuss it more tomorrow. For now, it’s enough to feel the hurt finally soothed. To have him in her arms again.

His free hand brushes hair from her face so he can kiss her forehead. Her eyes close and a smile lifts her lips.

“From now on, could you _please_ remember not to stab the nobility anymore?”

“I won’t make you a promise I can’t keep, _Leòmhann_.”


	23. Earpiece

Cullen tugs at the collar of his coat and shifts his shoulders. It’s slowly strangling him. By the end of the night, it will probably succeed. If the nobles don’t kill him first.

He watches the gates for Sidni. A lucky crossing of paths earlier had revealed her nerves to him. She’d been fidgety, gaze darting around and marking escape paths. Not even the usual kiss to her head had been enough to calm her.

“It’s the dress,” she’d said before Josephine interrupted and whisked her away.

When they’d left their borrowed home, all he’d seen was a flash of deep green as she hurried to the carriage. Dorian had promised he’d stay close while Cullen had to supervise the soldiers situating themselves around the palace, and he’d been true to his word.

Now, with their troops in place and the evening about to start, he waits. Most of her inner circle have already made their appearances with no small degree of tittering gossip. But Dorian and Sidni are still missing.

He recognizes the sound of Inquisition armor. She’s here. Dorian slips past and joins Cullen while the soldiers escort their Inquisitor.

“Is she--”

“It’s more skin than she’s used to. But I believe Madame de Fer has put that to rest.”

As Sidni breaks free from her entourage and strolls up to Duke Gaspard, Cullen gapes. Her eyes are steely, Cadash spirit firmly in place. Some of the worst scars are visible across her shoulder blades. They, along with her familiar gait and lifted chin, promise no mercy should someone cross her the wrong way.

“Close your mouth, Commander. We’re not here to catch flies.”

Cullen shoots him a glare. As their Inquisitor turns, eyes seeking him, he catches sight of something on the side of her head that wasn’t there before. He squints his eyes and realizes it’s a dragon curled around her ear. The metal has Fade magic, the green light playing with the shifting material of her gown. The wing holds her curls back from her face so everyone can see the brand on her skin. She looks dangerous and beautiful.

_Maker’s breath, it’s going to be a long night._


	24. Bunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't stomach the idea of killing rabbits so . . .

They return to Skyhold later than expected. It’s dark and most of the inhabitants are tucked away for the night. Sidni’s eyes go directly to Cullen’s tower.

Light spills through the windows.

Dorian nudges her. She shoots him a glare, but Varric is right behind him, folding his arms and shooing her.

“Go on, Prickly.”

She tries to walk away from them with some sort of dignity. She does. But the second her foot hits the staircase by the stables, she sprints. Their laughter chases her up.

In hindsight, she should’ve knocked first. But weeks of feeling the phantom memory of his kiss and hearing the quiet rumble of his confession and having thoughts of him consume her whether awake or asleep makes her hasty. She pushes the door open, startling the man bent over his desk.

His hand is reaching for his sword before he realizes it’s her. The moment his eyes lock onto her, he stops. A smile lights his weary face, but it’s slow. Hesitant. A stray curl falls over his forehead. He stands, his gaze taking her in.

She probably should’ve gone to bathe first too.

Her heart is racing. It reminds her of the blasted rabbits she can never bring herself to hunt, their legs moving at impossible speeds. The beat drives her forward. She tangles her fingers in the fur of his surcoat and hauls him down to her level.

Their lips crash. It’s inelegant and not at all like the first kiss. She doesn’t care. Feeling his mouth again soothes an ache she wasn’t aware of. With his gloves discarded somewhere, she can feel the heat of his skin as he drags his hand along her cheek and back into her hair. He swallows her gasp when he tugs her closer, lifting her slightly off her feet.

She locks her arms around his neck. His damn armor keeps her from feeling his body, but hers is doing the same for him. She breathes him in, the woodsy and flowery smell she’s come to associate with comfort. How could she have doubted?

This. This is what she wants. For herself. For him. For both of them. And for as long as he’ll have her.


	25. No Charge

The book thudding down on top of her paperwork makes her turn her glare to Varric. It’s unassuming, save for the brightly colored leather binding it. At least it’s not one of his works.

“Can I help you, Varric?”

“Take a break, Prickly. I think you might start breathing fire any moment now.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair. Fucking paperwork. Things were easier when she offed people and smuggled illegal goods. No one wanted paperwork on _that_.

“Is this supposed to encourage a break?”

“Well, I figured since you and Curly seem to be progressing nicely--”

“Varric,” she growls.

“Now, now. It’s just something for you to enjoy.”

“Why does that terrify me?”

“I called in a favor from a friend in Rivain. I think you’ll like it,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the cover. “No charge.”

With a smile and a wink, he saunters out of her quarters. She sighs, running her hands back through her hair. A break would be nice . . .

She flips open to a random page. Heat rushes to her cheeks when she realizes it’s explaining things like . . . positions and sensations.

When her eyes find a rather detailed image of two people demonstrating said strange position, she slams the book shut.

“VARRIC!”


	26. Mixed Messages

“Inquisitor!”

Josephine’s eyes are wide at Sidni’s sudden appearance. She stands from her desk, her face clearly showing her worry.

“That correspondence I gave you . . . were they all sent?”

“Yes, of course-- Mistress Cadash!” she calls as Sidni darts from the room.

She weaves through the nobles. It’s easy to evade them when she’s only half their size. Varric doesn’t miss her though. His exclamation as she brushes by is lost behind her. Even Solas raises a brow as she sprints through his rotunda.

She can see the messenger at the other end of the bridge. He’s too close to Cullen’s door. Her shout doesn’t even affect him. She runs as desperately fast as she ever has, thinking of the horribly sentimental things contained in the note, instead of the report on red lyrium Cullen is supposed to receive.

“Stop!” she yells as she gets closer, but his hand reaches out for the doorknob.

Later, she’ll send a box of sweets or something to the poor man. For now, she resorts to taking out his knees before he can even budge the door. He hits the stone hard and Sidni straddles his chest, trying to catch her breath.

“Let me see that missive. Please,” she grits out.

“Inquisitor! What--”

“Now.”

He wheezes and quickly hands the stack of sealed parchments over. She rifles through them, finding the one she needs and replacing it with the correct report. The messenger looks terrified to take them back from her, but as soon as he has them, she climbs off of him.

“Thank you. So sorry.”

She hears the door opening and takes off back for the Great Hall. The sound of Cullen’s confused voice follows her, but she doesn’t stop until she’s back in her quarters, clutching the letter to her chest.

Stone’s sake, if he’d actually read her thoughts about his hair, his eyes, his smile, and everything else she’d blathered on about, she’d never be able to look her Commander in the eye again.


	27. Delicious

“Commander.”

He’s not surprised to find her on the battlements. Skyhold is new and she’s determined to learn it inside and out.

“Inquisitor,” he nods.

In the privacy of night, she allows her nose to wrinkle. It pulls a smile from him, even as he lifts the mug to his mouth.

“What’s that?” 

The sweetness on his tongue lingers, even as he turns to find her eyes locked on him. Her head is tilted, brows furrowed.

“It smells sweet.”

“It’s hot cocoa. Josephine managed to find some. I’m not sure how, but . . . it reminds me of home. My mother used to make it for me.”

Confusion is still the primary emotion on her shadowed face, but he catches the glimpse of sadness in the green light of her eyes.

“Have you never--”

She turns abruptly, her voice taking on a strange tone. “I wasn’t allowed luxuries.”

He frowns.

“Do you . . . you should . . .”

His hand is only slightly unsteady as he holds the mug out to her. Wide eyes turn to him, glancing from his face to the offered drink and back to his face. A smirk crosses her lips.

“I have no plans to poison you, Commander, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A tendril of shame uncurls in his gut. She moves slowly, showing him her hands as she takes it. He rolls his eyes at her exaggeration. The small laugh he receives is worth his embarrassment.

The wonder that crosses her face when she tastes it is childlike. He’s privately thought her usually stoic features were pleasing, but this is a new side. He’s seen her terrified, angry, hurt, exhausted, but never this. She stares down at the brown liquid like it’s the purest gold.

“Thank . . . thank you,” she murmurs, handing it back to him.

“Of course,” he says, face suddenly overly warm. “Y--you should finish it. Good night, Inquisitor.”

He retreats back to his tower, savoring the small smile she gives him in return.


	28. Cold, Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a follow up to Chapter 17.

He stares out into the blizzard. After watching the slide, seeing Haven’s remains buried, it seems more sinister than any snowstorm he’s experienced before. By the Maker’s mercy, they’ve found a relatively sheltered clearing to stop for the night.

He thinks of their Herald and wonders if the Maker has shown her the same mercy.

Cassandra stands at attention next to him, searching the landscape of white for some movement, the same as he is. Dorian paces nearby, back to the camp and then returning to them. The others do what they can to help the survivors, but he doesn’t miss the way they glance back toward the ruined town.

He wonders if she realized . . . _realizes_ . . . how much she’s come to mean to them.

Or to him. Perhaps he unfairly judged her at first. He’s guilty of assuming too quickly with people. But he saw how she tried. Despite everything Varric told him, he came to know someone who was kind, if brutal. And the way she responded to certain things reminded him of the mages in the towers . . .

His fingers press into the back of his neck. The way she had looked back at him before she walked out the doors of the Chantry, hesitating for just a moment. It had taken everything in him not to race after her.

Something moves at the edge of his vision. He turns toward it. Heart pounding, eyes widening, he takes a step. Then another.

_It can’t be._

It is.

“Look! It’s her!” he calls as he sprints toward her.

“Thank the Maker!”

Cassandra is right behind him. Sidni collapses to her knees, pitching forward. He catches her, feeling the iciness of her skin even through his gloves. She’s bruised, bloodied, her shoulder is sitting strangely, and her lips are edged with blue.

“Sidni.”

Her eyes open slightly. A huff escapes her and he thinks he hears her breathe his name before she goes limp. He lifts her into his arms as they run back to the camp.

And as they call for healers, he asks the Maker for one more mercy: let her live and see what she has become to them.


	29. Lips Touch

Another warden nods to her, saluting her with his fist across his chest. She can’t get used to that, but she returns his nod as she passes.

The fortress is a disaster. Some soldiers search the rubble for survivors or bodies while others lean against anything sturdy and catch their breath.

Her breath rattles in her chest. She searches every face she passes, fingers wrapped around the hilts of her daggers. That soldier had said he had the magister and wanted her to decide his fate. It means he’s okay. He’s here somewhere.

Her feet pause every few moments as another vision from the Fade assaults her mind. She tries to shake them free, but they hound her. Once, she’d been envious of those who could dream. Now she knows better. She’ll never wish for it ever again. Ever.

But with her memories restored, she knows she’s not what everyone thinks she is. Wrong place, wrong time . . . no. She’d let such a tiny part of her - one that Lorcan had tried to bury - have reign for once. She’d reacted to a call for help. And here she is.

Once word spreads, will they hate her? Will Cullen?

It would serve her right if he did. Just as she’s admitted it to herself . . .

Heavy steps draw her attention outward. He’s there, hurrying toward her. They stop in front of one another in the same courtyard where they had parted at the start of the battle. His eyes sweep over her.

“Cassandra said you were back.”

“Did . . . did she tell you?”

“She said something about your memories.”

“Cullen, I’m not-- Everything I am is a lie. I’m not--”

“Sidni, nothing you saw changes who you are.”

A smile tugs on her lips. How easily he can say that to her, but he can’t see the similar sentiment in himself. She loves him. _She loves him._

The fear she felt in the Fade comes back. How she thought she wouldn’t make it back and he’d never know. She can’t let him go another moment without knowing.

It’s not her most dignified moment, but she crosses the distance between them and leaps. His hands press against her back as she wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She kisses his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his scar, lingering each time with a tenderness she’s never had reason to show. His eyes are wide when she pulls back, holding his face in her hands.

“I love you,” she whispers and seals it with with her lips against his.


	30. Crosshairs

There had been multiple attempts. Each one incensed Sidni, but she always saw them. After the first two had been neatly disposed of, no one really worried anymore. She had a way of knowing that, quite frankly, spooked Varric a little. Still, it meant their lives were safe in her hands.

But no one saw this coming.

The message comes while they’re gathering for a game of Wicked Grace. Almost everyone is there, sipping carefully at their chosen drinks. The runner brings them to a standstill, announcing Cullen is missing after his trip down the mountain to see the troops.

In an instant, Varric sees Inquisitor Cadash transform from his friend to the phantom that surface dwarves would whisper about. He’s never seen it before, but there’s no mistaking it.

It’s not Sidni who crosses the floor and positively looms over the human, despite being half his height. He hears her voice from their first meeting.

_Parsha._

As the story unfolds, her eyes grow colder. She strides from the tavern, everyone hurrying in her wake. The door to her quarters shuts in their faces and they retreat to the War Room where Leliana is waiting. Their voices rise and clash, trying to fill the very noticeable void of their commander’s absence. Everyone has a plan and everyone wants to go after him.

The door slamming open silences them. Parsha stands there, armored and armed. She doesn’t enter the room, but she looks over each one of them. A shiver races down Varric’s spine.

“I will be back. With Cullen.”

“You cannot go alone!” Cassandra protests.

“This is my _personal_ affair. Don’t get involved.”

No one listens. They give her several minutes after she leaves them before following. He’s not sure he wants to see what happens. She scares him like this.

But he does take a moment to feel sorry for the poor bastard who has now become her target.


	31. Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Lyrium withdrawals

“Hello, Cole,” she says as he appears on her desk. She shouldn’t be grateful for the distraction, but she always enjoys the spirit’s strange company.

“The song. It’s loud. Too loud. He’s afraid. It hasn’t felt like this in a long time. He thought he might be better. It hurts. Hurts so badly, Maker, please.”

She’s on her feet, squeezing Cole’s shoulder as she passes.

“Thank you.”

“I wanted to help, but sometimes he’s more scared of me than he thinks.”

“I know. He’s not thinking clearly right now.”

“He wants you. He doesn't want to say. But you make it better.”

Her heart stutters. With a smile and a quick hug she reserves just for him, she thanks Cole again and hurries from the room. Everything else can wait.

She finds Cullen sagging across his desk. His shaking hands clutch at his hair. He shivers, one hand jerking as if it wants to reach for the kit to the side of him.

After banishing the lyrium to an empty spot on his bookshelves, she turns back to find him staring at her. His red rimmed eyes are underlined with purple bruises. Sweat glistens on his temples and nose. He’s taut, holding the pain at bay as much as he can.

Only trial and error has brought her to the point that she knows what to do. Her arm goes around his waist.

“Come on, _Leòmhann_. I know it’s hard, but I need you to climb up the ladder. I’m right behind you,” she murmurs.

Slowly, shakily, haltingly, he rises and does what she says. She watches him haul himself up to his loft, bracing herself to rush to support him if he falters. Each movement comes with a pause and a soft grunt. When he’s finally on solid ground, she scrambles up after him.

He watches her as she directs him to sit on his bed, fingers working quickly to remove him of his armor. Each wince is a blow to her heart as she manipulates his limbs out of the weight. She takes it all to the stand, even though she’d rather dump it in a pile on the floor.

As she makes her way back to him with the bottle of elderflower ointment and a stein of water, a door opens below, someone calling for the commander. She stops at the edge of the entrance, glaring down.

“The Commander will be unavailable for the rest of the day.”

“But . . . My Lady Inquisitor--”

“No.”

“Seeker Pentaghast--”

“You may tell her what I’ve said. She’ll understand.”

The messenger nods and salutes, her frantic expression softening as she slips out of the office. Sidni sighs and pads over to Cullen. He’s hunched forward onto his knees.

“Sit up for me. Let me have that tunic.”

“There’s no need--”

_Ah. It’s a Stubborn Day._

“Well, we both know that’s a lie,” she says, abandoning the gentle tone for a moment.

Their eyes meet. Whatever he reads in hers makes him relax and surrender. She takes her time baring his overheated skin, rubbing the salve into where she knows it hurts the most and reminding him to drink. When he starts to shiver again, she plucks the tilting mug from his hand and sets it aside. His head presses into her stomach and she strokes the remnants of ointment into his neck, only scratching across his scalp when her fingers are relatively clean. The heat of his breath over her tunic warms more than just her skin. She breathes him in, resting her cheek against his hair.

“Do you think you can lay back?”

He nods against her before shifting. She sheds her boots and trousers quickly before climbing into the bed, letting him settle on top of her. As she pulls the covers over them, a smile quirks her lips. Even in pain, he finds his favorite place resting against her breast. Her arms wrap tightly around him, resuming playing with his hair.

The sun has passed overhead and started to dip by the time he falls asleep. She hums quietly, holding him close as if she can take his pain into herself. Even if it caused more scars along her back, she’d do it gladly a thousand times over.


End file.
